


Your Tongue Close to My Mouth

by moodwriter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, Licking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodwriter/pseuds/moodwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets an unexpected visitor who doesn't know what personal space means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Tongue Close to My Mouth

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Banner by me
> 
> This story was betaed by the wonderful [red_adam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/red_adam/pseuds/red_adam). Spoilers for season two finale.

The aftermath of their battle in the warehouse is slightly disturbing.

Stiles lies on his bed unable to sleep because the night keeps playing in his head like some sick twisted movie. He’s seen more violence than most kids his age, and he wasn’t lying when he told Ms. Morrell that he suffers from constant overwhelming fear of approaching doom. He can’t get used to this, no matter how much he pretends.

There’s a sound close to his window and he thinks it’s Scott.

It very much isn’t.

All six foot of their friendly neighborhood Alpha stands right in front him.

He should be terrified, but he just doesn’t have the strength to feel anything right now. “What do you want?” he asks, not moving a muscle.

Derek prowls. It would be funny if it wasn’t his bedroom.

“What? I’m going to sleep. Go away.”

“You haven’t even taken off your shoes yet,” Derek says, moving closer.

Stiles sighs. He’s not up for games. “What part of ‘Go away’ can’t you understand?”

Derek pulls Stiles’ desk chair close to the bed and sits on it, leaning his elbows against his knees. “You got in the middle of this.”

“If you haven’t noticed I’ve always been in the middle of it. Scott is my best _werewolf_ friend.” He doesn’t like this one bit: concern from the big bad Alpha. It hurts his brain.

“No,” Derek says smartly, and Stiles wants to strangle him.

He still asks, “No what?” then adds, “If you’re going to talk at least say something other people can understand.”

“You’ve never been in the middle of it like this.”

“So?”

Derek leans closer, and this time Stiles moves. He jumps further away. He doesn’t understand where his anger comes from. Derek reaches for him, and that’s it, he fucking snaps.

“You put your claws through Jackson,” he accuses, sitting up, kicking with his feet. “You do that. Act without thinking. And you don’t care who gets hurt in the process. It’s just instinct and pack and blood, and it’s all thicker than any human emotions. You hurt her.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, and Derek looks as confused as he feels.

“Lydia?”

“You just don’t do that.” He wants to curl into a ball. It hurts to speak, his face a painful mess.

“We’re all fine,” Derek says finally.

“No thanks to you.”

Derek is quiet for a while, then gets up. Stiles thinks he’s leaving, but instead, he puts a knee on the bed and looms over Stiles.

He puts a flat palm on Derek’s chest, pushing, keeping him away, suddenly drawn out of the strange cocoon he’s been in since Gerard beat the crap out of him. “What the hell?”

“I came to make it right,” Derek says, like that’s any kind of an explanation.

Stiles breathes, his mind failing him, totally blank. Came to make what right? What? He’s panicking.

“You got hurt.” Derek ignores the hand that tries to keep him away and leans down, sniffing Stiles’ cheek.

This can’t be happening. Did someone drug them?

Then his brain freezes completely because Derek licks his cheek where the worst of the bruising is. It’s unbelievably otherworldly, and Stiles just stares at the ceiling, holding his breath.

Derek continues to lick his face, like it’s the most normal thing to do, and Stiles tries to think of a way to escape this without getting eaten.

It’s weird because the lights are on, and he can see everything clearly, and Derek is just there, pressed against him, and these things keep happening to him, these crazy-ass things that make absolutely no sense. His fingers curl around Derek’s shirt, he realizes, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s petrified.

When Derek licks a trail to the wound on his lower lip Stiles stops breathing entirely. His heart is a steady rush in his ears, and he knows Derek can hear it, can hear the frantic beating, can smell the sweat sliding down Stiles’ back.

It hurts when Derek licks the side of his mouth. Stiles takes hold of Derek’s shoulder with his free hand, his nails digging in, the muscle strained under his fingers. He doesn’t know how to get away from this.

And when he thinks he might just lose his mind over this of all things, Derek pulls back, staring down at him, his eyes red. “The pack takes care of its own.”

Then Derek is gone, and Stiles pulls in mouthfuls of breath. He’s never in his life been this scared of anything.

He gets up, goes to the window, and closes it properly. Then he plays with the idea of hauling his bookshelf in front of it, too.

He doesn’t know what to do with his body. On the best of days, he’s all long legs and arms that don’t seem to work the way they should, but right now, he’s just completely wrong.

Stiles wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Eww... Werewolf spit. But what surprises him is the lack of pain.

He runs to the bathroom, then stares at himself in the mirror for five minutes straight. He’s sure it takes that long because there’s nothing on his face, and he just can’t stop looking. Nothing. No bruises, no wounds, no cuts.

It’s unreal.

Stiles pulls at his skin, touches it everywhere, surprised and scared and _grateful_. Then he thinks about his dad, and how he’s ever going to explain this to him.

Great. His life is one huge struggle.

He grins. Scott is going to lose his shit over this tomorrow.


End file.
